Chapter 8

"Wait."

She's wondered, sometimes, what it might feel like to have his mouth on her neck. For him to kiss her without restraint, lips dragging from hers down to the line of her throat, down where her collar bone just barely peeks out from beneath her jacket. Not those careful brushes he's been giving her all week where his hands are sure to stay in respectable positions and his lips only linger for half an exhale before he's pulling back. That's not - it's just - his kisses are great, wonderful even, but it's not real. It's not really him kissing her and - well, she's thought about it.

She's thought about what it might feel like if he's kissed her. Specifically on her neck.

She remembers sophomore year when he came back from summer vacation with tanned forearms and a strip of red down the line of his nose, his hair just a bit too long in the back and curling at his neck. He wasn't wearing his glasses when he found her down in the laundry room - didn't wear them to the bar either - and maybe it was how long they spent apart and all the hazy, hot summer nights spent thinking about him and wondering what he was up to an ocean away - but, he looked good. Really good.

(So good she felt herself hesitate when Neal curled his hand over her knee, fingers sliding up to toy with the hem of the ratty shorts she always wore when doing laundry. But Neal made her feel special and Neal made her feel not so alone when her best friend was so very far away - and she chased it. Followed him all the way down a road of bad judgment and even worse choices.)

They had danced that night and the burn of tequila buzzing just beneath her skin had her wondering about him. Wondering if she pressed her lips to the hollow of his throat, if she would be able to taste the ocean. If she tucked her thumbs into the hem of his shorts and tugged just a bit, if there would be a line left behind from the sun. Pale against dark in a deep swoop across his hip bones - maybe dipping further if he wore the shorts that never tied quite right and had a tendency to slip down low.

(She found herself wondering how her skin would look splayed against his, her pale forearm cast across his stomach - her fingers digging into his biceps and her knees hugging his hips tight. She found herself wondering how that would look. If her skin would glow or if she would just steal some of the sun that lingered in his.)

But he was hesitant around her and she - she belonged with Neal. Another one of those signs that there wasn't supposed to be anything more between them. Bad timing, the wrong moment, an opportunity not taken - it always happened that way.

And even back then, she knew how important he was to her. Even then she was unwilling to give him up - risk it all for just a chance at more.

But still, sometimes she found herself wondering. Late night study sessions in the library when the light was low and his hair was sticking up every which way, glasses slipping down his nose and a tired yawn splintering over his shoulders. She wondered if he would taste like the coffee that sat cold at his elbow - or maybe like the sweedish fish he kept stealing from the small pile she kept across from her notebook.

The first time they got drunk over a beer he made - and his smile was so wide and his eyes so bright - tipping over in the armchair he had claimed as his own in her tiny apartment. It had been so long since she had seen him smile like that - Liam and Milah and ghosts nipping at his heels. He had been struggling, she knew, but - but this smile. The one that tipped the left side of his mouth just a bit higher, dimples flashing in his cheeks, both hands reaching for her when he tumbled from the chair. She wondered if she would be able to taste the happiness on his tongue, or if it would just be hops and barley.

She wanted him to kiss her in the greenhouse. She wanted him to duck down and press his lips to hers as the humidity curled the hair slipping out of her bun, berry juice staining his bottom lip blue and his fingers tangled in the place just behind her ear.

She wants him to kiss her now. On this rooftop where they're supposed to be stringing lights, the discarded BLT on the ground between them and his body so close. With his flannel clad arms on either side of her head, her hands curled against his biceps and his nose in her hair. It's becoming harder and harder to remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea.

"Wait," she whispers, and she feels him exhale against her.

"Emma?"

Not Swan. Not darling or love.

Emma.

She wants him to kiss her.

"I -"

"Emma? Killian?"

Unsure herself what she intended to say (afraid, more like, of what she intended to say), she's relieved by the interruption from the street. It dissipates whatever moment they found themselves in and she slips from his arms with a small smile as an apology, hoping to brush it all off as getting lost in the heat of a battle - the battle over a BLT. Stupid as that sounds, she knows he won't press her, and she's grateful for that.

She wouldn't know what to say if he did.

Because despite her growing desire to be close to him, to drag her teeth along his jaw and feel the scratch of his beard against her skin, nothing has changed. Their relationship is still strictly friendship and she can't be selfish and ruin it with - feelings she can't control. Killian is so much more to her than whatever trial and error they might attempt and she can't lose him. Not after everything.

She's just not willing to take the chance.

-/-

Why her mother chose her to oversee tent placement and set up is a mystery. It only takes fifteen minutes for Uncle Leroy to go completely rogue, angrily brandishing what's supposed to be a leg of one of the tents as a weapon against the mild mannered pharmacist who always seems to have a cold. Poor reflection on her leadership skills or perhaps a beer too many, she isn't sure. All she knows is she's down one tent constructor to the drunk tank, another to the emergency room for a cut along his forehead.

(Her father had rolled his eyes as he gripped Leroy's elbow, leading him over to the Sheriff's station.

"He had it coming."

"You can't hit people with a steel piece of frame, Leroy. For god's sake.")

And another, it would seem - eyes narrowed as she watches Henry follow Killian back and forth, gesturing wildly with his hands as the tips of Killian's ears flush that interesting shade of red they always do when he's biting his tongue against a stream of expletives - to the roof.

She sighs and looks down at the mass of canvas at her feet. Killian would definitely be better at this sort of thing. He's always had an eye for complicated patterns.

(She thinks of his gaze heavy on her lips, of his teeth grazing the space between shoulder and neck.

He's always had a knack for complicating things, too.)

"Looks like you could use some help."

Her hands seize on the heavy tarp of the felled tents, nails catching against the rough material as she tries not to react to Walsh standing far too close in her personal space. She keeps her head down and smooths her palms over weathered white, looking for the pole Leroy had been using as a weapon.

"I'm actually good, thanks."

He sighs, and she watches as his boots shuffle closer. "Don't be stubborn, Emma. Let me help."

"Yeah, no," her lips pull in a tight smile as she hauls herself back to her feet, shoving her hands in her pockets and rocking back on her heels. " I'm just fine on my own, thanks."

There are few things she hates more than being told what or how she's feeling. Being told she's angry when she's decidedly not angry is a surefire way to get her - well, angry.

And stubborn? Same thing.

Killian calls it setting fire to the gasoline. She calls it damn irritating.

"That sounds familiar," Walsh's look is contemplative, a bit nostalgic, and he smiles at her as he reaches forward and thumbs at the zipper of her coat. It speaks of intimacy they don't have - never had - and she slips easily out of his grasp, crossing her arms over her chest. He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, that's pretty familiar, too."

"You would think you'd get the hint."

He huffs through his nose, smile slipping into something forced and slightly aggressive. She's reminded suddenly why she said no so many times, avoiding his charming advances and constant nagging. She's always sensed something just a bit off about him. Something disingenuous lingering beneath the surface.

Her thing with lies never fails when it comes to scumbags, and there might as well be a neon sign flashing above Walsh's head.

"And you would think that after our night together, you would - "

"Really, Walsh?" Irritation rises hard and fast, her fingernails digging into her elbows through the thick material of leather. She caved once and gave into her loneliness and he keeps holding it over her head like they carved their names into tree trunks together instead of going on one mediocre date to an italian place with stale garlic bread. "Are we really going to do this?"

"You've hardly given me a choice. You've been ignoring my calls, Emma. Ignoring me in person, too. And now you bring around some guy and - "

"He's my fiance," she corrects. "He isn't just some guy." Conscious of the people milling around them, she relaxes her stance, fixing her best fuck you smile on her face. She steps closer into his space, mindful that town psychologist and resident gossip monger Archie is inching ever closer, a not so subtle tilt to his head. "And stop acting like we were in a relationship. We went out on one date. I'd hardly consider that boyfriend status."

"And does your fiance know how I took you home after?" His tone is ugly, jagged edges around the words that cut into her skin. He reaches forward and curls his fingers around her elbow, knuckles brushing up and down gently. "Does he know the sounds you made, all tangled up in my sheets?"

Her cheeks flush red in anger as she jerks out of his grip, his smile widening. "Or maybe he doesn't know at all. Maybe that's our little secret, hm?"

"What do you want?" She manages. "Because if it's a repeat performance, I've got news for you, buddy - "

"I thought we could have fun together, Emma," he shrugs his shoulders, suddenly back to the unassuming furniture shop owner instead of - whatever the hell that was. "I can see now that's not going to happen."

"Finally," she mutters.

"You're hardly worth the effort I've extended on you, anyway. The emotional baggage you carry around with you isn't worth the fuck."

She blanches, stomach dropping to her toes. The other insults were - well, they were crass and uncomfortable - borderline harassment and manipulation at best. But the - the implication that she's not worth the effort - that she's hardly worth a casual fuck -

She feels it knock around her skull until her teeth clench tight.

"I'll see you around, Emma," he starts walking backwards, over to where a stage is being erected by some of the men who work at the furniture store. "Hey! Maybe, ah, what's his name," he snaps his fingers. "Killian! Maybe Killian and I will get a chance to talk at the festival."

She takes the threat for what it is, knowing now that Walsh is way more of an asshole than originally anticipated.

"Wouldn't count on it."

He just smiles, touching his fingertips to his temple is a swarmy salute. She fights the urge to flick him off - or take a page out of Leroy's book and start wielding the tent pole as a weapon. Instead she smiles in response, muttering under her breath about cheaply made end tables and shaggy hair that looks better on an eighth grader.

She has the feeling her unpleasant interaction with Walsh is far from the last time she pays for the one-night mistake born out of her inherent lonely streak and one too many gin and tonics at dinner.

She looks back at the tent at her feet, kicking at a pole and listening to the tin ring against the concrete.

"What I wouldn't give for my taser."

-/-

He's right, though.

She has emotional scar tissue for days and it keeps her - it holds her back from -

It makes her difficult to love.

Neal had said as much with frustrated quips and snide comments, his eventual disappearance without so much as a note a confirmation in capital letters. Bouncing from foster home to foster home should have been indication enough and the Swan's, when she had been returned after she thought she finally found a home -

She knows she's difficult to love.

She knows she has trouble telling people how she feels - has trouble staying stationary when things get too serious. She feels freedom in the run, resorting to avoidance if a situation is too difficult to bear. She avoided Killian for three weeks after he started dating Milah, unsure of her place once he started seeing someone. He had eventually cornered her in the third floor of the library, not letting her out of the stacks until she just talked to him.

("Did I do something? Emma, please."

"No, it's not you. Nothing's wrong. It's just - "

"You've missed movie night three times, love. You've been avoiding me in the dormitories. What is it?")

It's her. It's always her.

-/-

Killian finds her just before the lights are set to be revealed, a frown on his face and his shoulders tense. Her own discomfort at her interaction with Walsh falls away in the face of his. She curls her fingers around his wrist and tugs until his arm is over her shoulders, nuzzling into his side until he relaxes.

(She tells herself it's all for appearance, but maybe it's a bit for her, too - feeling the way her nerves settle when he shifts his arms and tugs her closer.)

"You alright?"

He blinks down at her, fingers toying with an errant curl of her hair as the frown lines slip from his face. She doesn't like to see him worry. In fact, she likes to see him just like this - pink cheeks from the cold and smiling down at her.

"Aye, love. Fine."

She huffs in disbelief but leaves it alone. If it's important enough to tell her, he will. They're not in the habit of keeping things from one another.

(Except for how she slept with Walsh during their one date. And how she feels when she presses her back to his chest, curled in the warmth of her bed. And the way her throat gets thick every time he looks up at her from beneath his lashes, hair falling over his forehead and sleeves rolled to his elbows.

How this whole fake engagement thing was all because she wanted a chance to be with him but not be with him. The perks of a relationship without the responsibility.

You know, besides that.)

It seems Uncle Leroy managed to escape the drunk tank, ruining the countdown by hitting the switch a full two seconds before her mother reaches the conclusion at the mic. She watches her father drop his head back and heft a sigh into the night air, his breath a cloud of white next to her mom. She makes sure to kick the tent pole further beneath the canvas.

No use in tempting fate.

-/-

No use in tempting fate and yet she still curls herself around him when he slips into her bed later that night, tucking her sock covered toes between his legs until the chill that's settled over her shoulders begins to dissipate. No use in tempting fate and yet -

"Swan? You asleep?"

She groans, shifting her face further into the pillow, maybe kicking back at his shin in retaliation. He chuckles, fingertips massaging at her neck in the darkness.

"It's rather cold, love, and you're hogging the space heater."

"Then you shouldn't have given it to me."

"I was hoping we'd share it."

She tilts her chin back until she can just make out the line of his jaw in the moonlight that filters in through the window. "You thought we would share it, but you put it on my side."

"Fair point, well made," she sees the flash of his teeth. "As always, Swan."

"Alright," she grumbles, tossing and turning beneath the blankets and probably, maybe kicking him a couple more times in the process. "Come over here."

"Swan?"

"If you want the space heater so damn bad, come over here."

There's a beat of silence with nothing but the rustle of her flannel sheets between them, duvet pulled firmly to her chin. She can feel the heat of his body along the length of her left side, his elbow rubbing against her rib cage every time she shifts.

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"If you think I'm even considering the idea of unwrapping myself from these blankets - "

"Alright, alright. Easy, love." Keeping the sheets tucked tight around her shoulders, he drapes his arm overtop her, palm pressing flat into the mattress beside her head until it dips under his weight.

"Lie on your back," he mutters and she shifts, a low tug in her belly with the way his voice grits along the edges. It's the way he sounds when he has a particularly good cup of coffee - his first IPA after a long day. It catches and rolls, the quiet demand lingering between them along with the rickety creaking of the ancient space heater. She rolls onto her back and he follows the motion, rising above her on his hands, careful to keep their little cocoon in tact. He moves slowly - intently - one of his hoodie strings dragging across her neck as he slips over her. He presses one knee between hers, then the other, shifting again until he has her caged with his body. She sucks in a sharp breath and she feels his answering exhale against her forehead as he holds himself in her space, his fingers caught in her hair against the pillow.

"Interesting position, this," he whispers.

"If you say something about liking a woman on her back," she whispers back just as softly, hands itching to anchor in his hair. "I'm kneeing you."

He snickers, continuing his shift until he's wedged between her and the wall, the space heater drifting over them both. His hand finds it's way to the small of her back, tucking her impossibly closer.

"Noted."

No use in tempting fate, and yet she just pushes closer until her nose is pressed against the hollow of his throat, her hands beneath his sweatshirt, pressed flat to his chest.

-/-

She wakes to an empty bed, the blankets piled high on her side and the space heater angled just right to brush over the minimal amount of skin that peeks out from beneath. She blinks heavily and groans, rolling further into the pillows and catching a hint of Killian on the pillows. She lingers far longer than she'd ever admit, nose rubbing back and forth against the floral sheets before she braces herself and heaves herself from the mattress.

It's a slow shuffle out of her room and down the steps, nothing but the smell of bacon and pancake batter driving her forward.

Killian is standing at the stove when she enters the kitchen, hair sticking up on the left side from where his head pressed against the pillow. She doesn't hesitate to shuffle over to him and wrap herself around his back, greedy for the warmth of his body and the warmth of the stove.

"Morning, love," he pats her hands that rest over his stomach, rings still upstairs on her nightstand. "In a rare show of supplication, you didn't stir when I climbed from the bed this morning, so I figured it best to let you sleep."

She presses on her tiptoes to rest her chin on his shoulder. "And make pancakes?"

"Aye, well. The stove was warm."

"How industrious of you," She watches him flip the pancakes with a flick of his wrist, a perfect golden crust appearing as the batter sizzles. "Why does it smell like cinnamon?"

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Perhaps I put some in the batter."

She groans, her stomach echoing in an appreciative rumble. "God, I love you."

She tenses against him, cursing herself for the slip in phrase. She loves him, of course she does. But she doesn't - she can't -

She has trouble articulating what it is he means to her. How she feels about him and how she can't - can't even consider a life without him in it.

"I'm just sucking up to your mother," he quips, either not noting her distress or choosing to ignore it. "Want a good wedding gift, after all."

"Well consider myself wooed," her mother's voice drifts in from the doorway, a pink robe wrapped tight around her small frame. She shuffles over to the coffee maker with a serene smile. "It isn't often I don't have to make breakfast."

Emma snickers under her breath as the tips of Killian's ears flush pink.

"Apologies. I didn't mean - "

"Nonsense," Mary Margaret waves her hand. "And thank you for making breakfast."

Killian mutters something beneath his breath that sounds vaguely like you're welcome before handing Emma the plate of pancakes, setting himself to pouring more batter onto the hot griddle. She's noticed he's already set out the butter on the table, making sure it's soft enough to use on the warm pancakes.

She presses a kiss to his shoulder.

"What do you have us doing today?"

"You know," Mary Margaret slides a mug in front of Emma before sitting herself, hands curled around ceramic. "We hardly ever get to see you. I figured we'd just relax for the day and stick around here. We can get back to baking tomorrow."

"Are you sure? Don't you have a million things - "

"It's not important," At her disbelieving look, Mary Margaret chuckles. "Okay, so I might have you assemble some paper lanterns later this afternoon, but I think that's all we need." She smiles, eyes bright in excitement. "We're pretty much set at this point for the festival."

She reaches across the pancakes and grips her mother's hand. "It's going to be great."

-/-

Her father joins them at the table some time later, Killian working the last of the batter from the large ceramic bowl. It's cozy like this - the warmth of the stove wrapping around them - her dad blinking at her lazily with a tired smile, his hand wrapped around her mom's. Killian drops a kiss to the back of her head as he slides the bacon on to the table between them and Henry appears almost instantly, lifting the plate before it hits the table.

"You need to share, lad."

Two pieces of bacon in his mouth, Henry nods solemnly. "Yeah, okay," he picks up another piece before setting the plate back down. "Maybe you should make the other pack then."

David angles his head up. "Do they feed you at college?"

Henry grins, trailing after Killian to the stove. "Not enough."

Emma frowns at that, remembering what it was like in the group homes. There was never enough to go around, and she frequently lifted microwaveable burritos from the gas station to make sure Henry had something to eat at lunch.

He must sense the direction of her thoughts, smiling gently at her.

"I was joking, Emma. I eat just fine at school."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, you only use one meal swipe for unlimited food and I put tupperware in my backpack."

Her shoulders relax, her gaze meeting's Killian's over Henry's shoulder when he snorts in amusement. He's holding the extra pack of bacon in one hand and a spatula in the other, the dwarf dishrag hanging from his hip. He looks at home here, like he just fits - especially when Henry forcibly pushes him out of the way to snag the extra burnt piece of bacon Killian was clearly pilfering for himself.

There's a scuffle between the two, resulting in Henry in a headlock and bacon grease on the floor - an elbow covered in pancake batter and interesting substitutes for curse words as Killian does his best to restrain himself in front of her parents.

It could be like this always, she thinks idly, and does her best to file that thought away along with what it might be like to kiss him.

-/-

"Killian, there's - ah - there's an Everton match on tomorrow morning. I was going to wake up early and watch, if you wanted to join."

She stares at her father.

"I'm sorry, are you a fan of Everton?"

David's shoulders straighten, indignation in the arch of his brow. "Maybe I developed some interests while you were off in Portland, Emma."

"Yeah, or maybe you developed a cru - "

"I'd be delighted," Killian interrupts easily. He's scrubbing at their dishes in the sink, his shoulders flexing beneath the cotton of his sweatshirt as he keeps his head down. She notes the way his voice tightens - how he sounds both entertained and touched at the gesture.

She smiles into her coffee mug.

(It could be like this always.)

-/-

"Your father likes me, Swan."

"I can see that."

"He's invited me to watch a match."

"Yeah," she smiles, flicking at the tip of his ear. "Yeah, he did."

He just grins at her.

-/-

They spend the day huddled in the family room, not moving from the big couch in front of the fireplace. Killian discards his sweatshirt sometime before lunch and she steals it, tugging it over her head and leaving the hood up, smelling the spice of his shampoo and bacon grease. He smiles at her softly and tugs at the string once before turning his attention back to whatever him and Henry are enamored with on xbox.

They eat warm grilled cheese and he gives her a secret smile over the edge of his mug, her cheeks blushing hot at the memory of his teeth on her neck. She shifts against his side, his chuckle warming her down to her toes.

Mary Margaret corners her in the kitchen after she's done clearing the plates, her hand on her arm to stop her from going back to the family room.

"I'm sorry, Emma, for before," She starts to cut her off but Mary Margaret shakes her head. "No, please. Let me say it. I wasn't - I wasn't listening to you. I wasn't seeing you. You're so happy, Emma." Mary Margaret thumbs at her cheek, tracing the slight ache there from the time spent laughing into Killian's shoulder this morning - smiling at the way her father keeps jumping to impress him with his (limited) knowledge of UK soccer teams. "It's all I ever wanted, to see you happy. I thought it could be with Walsh, but I was wrong." She nods. "Killian makes you happy."

Emma peers over her shoulder back into the living room, Killian spread out against the couch, a space open next to him for her to slide into. His hair is still a ridiculous mess from the morning and with no sweatshirt to cover his arms, she can see the thick lines of ink that band around his forearms. The ship that sits on the inside of his bicep for his brother. The lilies that curl around his elbow for his mother.

"Yeah. Yeah he does."

Mary Margaret grins, leaning in close.

"Plus your father seems to like him."

She fiddles with the ring that isn't hers on her left hand, stomach flipping.

"What's not to like."

-/-

What's not to like about the way he presses his palm to her stomach when she slinks back into the room, tuckering her body into his as she curls up on the couch. What's not to like about the way he sifts his fingers through her hair, humming under his breath until she finds her eyelids slipping heavy over her eyes.

What's not to like about the warmth against her toes and the warmth in her chest, his beard brushing against her neck when he kisses her shoulder.

"Sleep, love," he whispers. "I'll be here when you wake."

-/-

She wakes disoriented and groggy, Killian wrapped tight around her and the family room dark. It seems they've slept the better part of the afternoon away, a low hum of conversation coming from the kitchen and the fire down to embers - a warm glow of orange lighting the room. She shifts and Killian grumbles against her, something about dropping anchor pressed into her hair.

She smiles. Killian is all smooth charm when conscious - adorable and ruffled as he sleeps.

She slips as best she can out of his grip, her dreams clinging to her like a vapor. She had been on Killian's boat again, waiting for him to arrive. Only this time a storm had been blowing in from the east, heavy winds pulling her further and further away from the dock. She had called for him, but he hadn't shown, the fear of abandonment sitting heavy in her gut as she slips off the couch.

It lingers now, and she avoids the kitchen to retreat upstairs, needing a moment to collect her thoughts.

Naturally she finds herself on the roof. The place she used to come when she was young and confused, staring up at the stars in the sky and desperately making wishes. Pleading wishes to stay in this beautiful home and have a family. Aching wishes to be enough for someone, to be kept.

Wishes to have everything.

(Now she wishes for this to be easy. For them to stay in this bubble where he freely presses kisses to the swell of her cheekbone and she can lace her fingers through his and tug, lips brushing against his knuckles.

For this to be real.

For her to have everything.

For her to have him.)

The window creaks open behind her, but she doesn't move from her prone position against the shingles, the material scratching at the backs of her arms where Killian's sweatshirt has ridden up. The wind is cold against her face, biting with every breeze and squeezing her chest tight, but she welcomes it. It helps her settle herself.

Henry stretches out at her side, his foot knocking against hers.

"It's been a while," he supplies quietly. "The last time we did this, I - "

" - was leaving for college, and I thought you were going to forget all about little old me."

"Yeah, well you're awfully persistent," he reaches over until he can cover her hand with his, squeezing once. "Kind of hard to forget about."

She snorts, her eyes following the path of an airplane above. The weather vane on top of the house creaks in the still night air and she tries to match her breathing to it.

In and out. Nice and steady.

If only her heart would follow along.

"It's okay to be scared, you know," Henry squeezes her hand. "I know you're scared."

She tilts her head to the side, staring at his profile, trying to keep her voice even. "And how is it that you know that?"

"Because I know you," he quips easily. "You don't love easy. And you're scared of loving Killian as much as you do."

"I don't - "

"Yeah," his thumb taps against her knuckles. "Yeah, you do."

He shifts on his side then, all gangly legs and awkward elbows. She remembers what he was like when she first met him - so small with a big brown book clutched to his chest, his eyes blown wide and earnest as he muttered over and over about the hope in fairytales.

"Do you remember when I fell at the playground and broke my arm? What you said to me while we were waiting for the school nurse?"

It's a vague memory, hazy at best, and she furrows her brows as she reaches out and tries to grasp it. "Don't puke on me?"

Henry laughs. "Well, yeah. Probably. But, also - you told me it was okay to be scared. Because the best things in life are supposed to be scary. And if you aren't scared, you aren't doing it right."

She feels a tear slip from the corner of her eye, her teeth clamping against her bottom lip as she breathes in and out.

Nice and steady.

Urges her heart to match.

"I was probably talking about a lollipop or something, kid."

She's never been very good at being brave, not like Henry. Henry's always just - believed that good things will happen to them. Her? She's always been a believer in the glass half empty, life teaching her hard and fast that things were rarely fair. She's shed a lot of that armour since meeting Henry, even more with her parents and then Killian - but she still clings to the things that keep her safe.

To the things that hold her back.

Another tear slips down her cheek, and not for the first time, she wishes so badly that she could just let all the anxiety go. Just give in and - and feel something without fear of the fall.

She tilts her head back and looks up at the stars, wishes for it with all her might.

"He's not going to let you down, Emma."

"How do you know that?"

She feels his answering shrug. "I just do."